Music And Memories
by AnnaCromwell
Summary: A bunch of one-shots inspired by songs I heard.


_My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails_  
 _He doesn't build ships, he has no use for sails_  
 _He doesn't make tables, dressers or chairs_  
 _He can't carve a whistle cause he just doesn't care_

Jim had no intentions of ever getting his hands dirty, even though he loved committing dirty deeds.

He was finishing another of his plans for his client, her observing him. His tired eyes scanned the room until they found the object they desired. The plan now packed and sealed away in a folder he proceeded towards the door, pecking her softly before they left his study for bed.

She gazed at his tired, sleeping face, this night being one of the many when she wondered why this line of work attracted her boyfriend more than any legal route. He never saw any charm in law enforcement - she couldn't see why he should, it was dreary work. But there were other avenues, like consulting detectives.

"I want to be one of a kind, love," he had offered as an explanation - and so the consulting criminal was solidified as a profession.

He was attracted to darkness, the Hyde in him revelling and relishing in the tasks he did for people, tasks they lacked mental capacities to execute.

 _My boy builds coffins for the rich and the poor_  
 _Kings and queens; they've all knocked on his door_

She watched Jim finish with his clientele for the day.

He'd received tramps with strange requests which piqued his interests, he'd received business heads and influential individuals with money to offer, heck, he'd helped The Woman on one of his ventures - he even received ordinary people just for the kick he got from arranging and executing a crime on a regular basis, the thrill it sent down his veins.

 _Beggars and liars, gypsies and thieves_  
 _They all come to him 'cause he's so eager to please_

She'd seen him shiver with pleasure when a good case was done with properly, glee on his face. People would call him insane for his interests, she preferred the term Machiavellian. And such men were worth keeping anyway.

 _My boy builds coffins he makes them all day_  
 _But it's not just for work and it isn't for play_

Jim preferred work to play - to him, work **_was_ ** play.

He would stay up at night to conduct meetings with his acolytes, or perfect a plan. On days when the cases were trivial, they would actually enjoy a normal couple's night, eating together and watching something they both liked. On some days he'd play the piano or the guitar for her, or ask her to play the violin for him. But that didn't stop him from working.

 _He's made one for himself_  
 _One for me too_  
 _One of these days he'll make one for you_

He'd made his 'coffin' with The Reichenbach Fall, as he called it.

The task was simple - be dead to the world. He'd set the entire plan in motion, even fooled Sherlock, who believed he'd fallen for his act of falling for Jim's fake plan. He'd made her a coffin too, a way to disappear with him, but she refused - her grieving act was key to Sherlock actually believing them. And for that she needed to live.

He'd left, but with an advice - if anyone troubled her, she had the liberty to inform them that Jim Moriarty was still in the business of coffin-making, and he'll do it from beyond the grave.

 _My boy builds coffins for better or worse_  
 _Some say it's a blessing, some say it's a curse_

Some of the people who knew criticized her for her choice of partner.

While Irene Adler called her extremely lucky to be loved by a man like Jim, her mother had ceased contact with her after discovering that her daughter's boyfriend stole the Crown Jewels.

Some people couldn't just appreciate the simple brilliance of it.

 _He fits them together in sunshine or rain_

Work really was Jim's first love.

He'd been down with a case of influenza, and she'd insisted on him taking a break - only to be met with vehement denial from the ailing man. He couldn't bear the separation.

 _Each one is unique, no two are the same_

Each plan had to be unique, else it wasn't Jim Moriarty's work, he'd tell his clients. And so far, he'd never failed to deliver on that promise.

 _My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame_  
 _That when each one's been made, he can't see it again_

Most of them never came back.

Once they had availed his services and received the desired results, his clients wouldn't be caught thinking of him, and she thought it was shameful on their part - even though it was illegal, Jim had provided them with a service - and he ought to receive his customer feedback.

 _He crafts every one with love and with care_  
 _Then it's thrown in the ground, it just isn't fair_

He made each plan with utter perfection - and the hours he would give to them weren't menial either. His clients would thank him profusely at first, but when the same people met him on the street or in a gathering, they would pretend his form was just an apparition they would rather not look at.

 _My boy builds coffins he makes them all day_  
 _But it's not just for work and it isn't for play_  
 _He's made one for himself_  
 _One for me too_  
 _One of these days he'll make one for you_

Jim loved what he did, even if it was making coffins and cages for people.

Sure, he'd offered her one, and landed himself in one too but in the end, it was worth it for him. If it made him happy, then it was worth it for her too. He loved it when he made her happy.

And if someone didn't, lets just say he had a coffin waiting for them.

* * *

 **Hey people! This is just a story I wrote in my free time - bored off my mind. I hope you all like it.**

 **Read and review!**

 **Your friendly neighbourhood sociopath,  
Anna.**


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